


Sweet Delights

by therestlessbrook



Series: sweet [7]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: At a business dinner, Venom decides to have a little fun beneath the table.





	Sweet Delights

You pull on the dress.

It’s a lovely thing—high-wasted, with a neckline that just skims your shoulders and collarbones, with long sleeves meant to keep out the damp San Francisco chill. When you step out of the bathroom, several inches of zipper remain undone. “Eddie,” you say, striding into the living room. “Can you—”

Your voice dies away when you catch sight of your boyfriend.

When you met Eddie, it was just after he began working for a rather new online publication. He was doing well, but his apartment was small and he wore a lot of t-shirts and jeans with ragged hems. And that’s part of what drew you to him—how he puts so much of himself into writing, into helping others, that sometimes he lets his own life slip. But over the last year or so, his work has picked up. You both found an apartment in Berkley. And now he’s wearing a _suit_.

You stand in the doorway for a few moments, jaw agape. He looks amazing. Part of you wants to stand there and look at him for hours and another part wants to tear that suit off. With your teeth. “I know, I know,” he says, tugging at the collar. “It’s a little weird. But this dinner is supposed to be kind of formal, so I thought—”

You cross the room in a few steps, covering his hands with your own, stilling the nervous movements. “You’re going to be the best looking person in the room, hun.”

He pulls you closer. “Only when you go to the bathroom.”

“Smooth talker,” you say, smiling. You’re still smiling when you kiss him. You try to put everything you’re thinking into the kiss: how proud you are of him, how glad you are that you met, and you know he’s going to do great things. He and Venom _are_ doing great things. The kiss deepens, and you can feel heat rising in your belly, your pulse quickening, and—

He pulls away. “Fuck. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.”

You shake your head, a little ruefully, before turning. “Zip me up?”

His gaze skims across your bare shoulders, and his eyes go white-blue as the symbiote rises to the surface. “I mean, zip up not down,” you say, grinning. “We can’t be late. Not when your editor’s bosses are going to be there.”

Eddie’s broad fingers tug at the zipper, and you feel the dress settling into place. “There,” he says, and you can hear just a hint of gravel to his voice. “Perfect.”

You kiss his cheek.

* * *

The dinner is held in a private room at a restaurant in the financial district; the floor is all reclaimed redwood and the bar was once the mast of an old ship. Candles are set out along the extended table, and the napkins are folded into elegant little fans. Eddie finds his name beside a plate and holds a chair for you. You smile at him as you settle in. A small custom menu rests on your plate. It seems work is pulling out all the stops—a good sign for the publication. 

Eddie’s editor arrives, followed by several backers and a few assistants. Handshakes are exchanged, compliments bandied about, drink orders placed, and then everyone settles into conversation and appetizers.

You’re halfway through your main course when something touches your bare shin. You twitch, but then you recognize the sensation. The flesh is warm, giving, and just a little slick. It can only be Venom. You glance up, but Eddie is talking to one of the paper’s new backers, animatedly discussing his current column on crime in the city. There’s no hint of mischief on his face.

The touch glides upward, stroking the inner edge of your knee. Your fork clinks against your plate and you smile at one of the assistant editors. “The fish is good, isn’t it?” you say, and you’re gratified to hear your voice sounds normal.

“It really is,” she replies. “The salmon season is so short these days. With the drought and—”

Her words blur together; you aren’t truly listening, because you can feel that tendril gliding up your inner thigh. You’re sensitive there—you’ve always been. And Venom likes to tease you with that knowledge, tongue gliding across your smooth skin with the promise of more to come. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the memory.

You shift the tablecloth, pretending to look into your purse—and sure enough, a black tendril is situated between your legs. It curls affectionately around your thigh, twining back and forth, the way Eddie’s hand might absentmindedly stroke your hair. The tendril stops at the edge of your panties. It remains there, so close you can feel the presence without actual touch. It nuzzles your thigh again, a silent question in the gesture. 

You have a moment to decide. You know that if you close your legs, Venom will retreat. For all that they look like a hulking black goo monster, Venom has never tried to cross the lines you’ve laid down. Which is more than you can say for some men you’ve been with.

You open your legs. You’re probably going to regret this, but the risk is too tempting.

The assistant editor is talking about another writer they’ve recently snapped up—some international correspondent—and you smile, picking up your glass of water. You hope the gesture will account for any distraction or fumble in your conversation.

Venom glides across your panties. 

The ice in your glass clinks audibly. You put the water down, smiling tightly at the assistant editor. “So what are you working on now?” you ask, to forestall any questions she might ask you. She seems happy to talk about her own projects, and you’re glad for it. Because it means she doesn’t notice your small intake of breath when Venom slips beneath your panties and touches skin. 

The caress is sure, but unhurried. There’s a patience possessed by predators who are sure of their prey. The tendril curls around your clit, circling around and around, never quite touching. It’s maddening, and you can feel your smile brittling at the edges. Your skin is a little too tight, your breaths a little too shallow. You want them inside of you, to feel the breach of their cock pressing deep. For a moment, you wish that Venom might have simply appeared and carried you off to a bathroom or a dark alley. You’re not picky, not when your panties are a sodden mess and every light touch against your clit makes you shiver. 

It’s almost a relief when Venom slips lower and eases _in_. This tendril is thinner than their cock, and you realize it’s probably because they’ve seen fantasies or memories of this in Eddie’s head. A man using his hand to pleasure his date beneath a table.

You swallow. Venom curls inward, pressing at that sweet spot just inside of you and your legs flex beneath the table. Your hips twitch, trying to fuck yourself on them. There’s an illicit thrill to knowing how easily you could be seen. If anyone were to peer beneath the tablecloth—

The thought only makes you even wetter. You nod along with the assistant, lips pressed tight. Venom twists, thickening, and your body answers with a jolt of pleasure. They must have shifted form, because there’s another touch, this one returning to the bud of your clit. The dual sensations have your grasping at your chair beneath the table, knuckles white.

God. You’re going to come. You’re going to come at this table, and everyone is going to see.

There is a clinking sound: a spoon against a glass. It’s one of the editors, rising to thank everyone for such a lovely evening.

The distraction must have been what Venom was waiting for, because everything speeds up and it’s all you can do not to thrash, to strain against them as they pull you over the edge. The orgasm is the swift, sweet kind, one that makes the world white out at the edges. It’s all you can do to keep quiet, to remain still as sensation wracks through you. When you return to yourself, the editor is just sitting down, and Eddie’s hand has found yours. He leans in, nose brushing your ear.

“All right? You look a little flushed.” His mouth is curled at the edges. 

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Not a word,” you murmur, but you’re smiling. Your panties are soaked through, and it’s a miracle no one noticed the sweat breaking out across your forehead. 

When the dinner has ended, once you’ve caught a cab back to your apartment and the door closes behind you, you put your arms around Eddie’s neck and say, “All right. I want to speak to the big guy.”

The apartment is dark; you haven’t bothered with the lights. But you can still see how Venom ripples out of Eddie’s chest, covering him in an instant.

“Yes,” they purr, drawing the word out. They sound unbearably smug.

“You,” you say, “are a menace.”

They lean in close, and the breadth of their body always makes you feel so small. “It is what the papers say,” Venom agrees, nuzzling at your throat. Their tongue darts out, drawing a line to your collarbone. It skims across your neckline, dipping into your bra—and just barely glances your hard nipple. Your breath snags in your dry throat. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” you whisper.

Their claws catch in the neckline of your dress, and the material comes away in several jagged strips. “You’re soaked through, sweetling,” Venom says. “We could smell your desire at the table.”

“And whose fault is that?” you reply, stepping into the circle of their arms.

“We ate little of our food tonight,” they say, and with a jerk, your panties fall away. “We’d rather be tasting you.”

Without another word, they drop to their knees before you, hooking one of your knees over their broad shoulder. Your back hits the wall and part of you wants to point out that the bed is only a few steps away, but then Venom’s clever tongue delves between your legs and the only thing to come out of your mouth is a shaky gasp. Your fingers dig into their shoulders, half to steady yourself, and half to bring them closer.

Every stroke of their tongue against your folds draws a little whimper from you. Venom is _ravenous_ , eyes watching your every reaction as they delve into you, their tongue far stronger and more flexible than any human appendage. Eyes on yours, they draw their tongue out and press back in, so deliberately. The way a person might savor a delicacy, might try to draw out the first bite of dessert, might lick a plate clean. That is how Venom tastes you. 

Your hips move, rolling in time with their movements. Silken fire coils at the base of your spine. You don’t bother to hold in your moans and gasps; this time, there’s no one to hear. Venom presses even deeper, and their teeth press to your clit, a whisper of sharp, sweet pressure. They’re dangerously close and you want them closer, you want everything they can give you, you _want_ , _you want_ —

Their tongue twists, and the pressure inside of you snaps. Your cunt ripples, as if trying to draw Venom deeper. Your orgasm crashes through you in a torrent, and you feel yourself tipping to one side, unable to remain upright any longer. Strong hands press to your sides, holding you in place. Venom’s tongue gentles, but they keep lapping, stroking, leaving no part of your cunt untasted. This is for their pleasure, not yours, and you whimper when it nearly becomes too much. 

Finally, Venom pulls back, laving across your clit one last time. Your leg kicks out involuntarily, almost hitting him. “My little sweetling,” they say, rising. One arm hooks beneath your legs and you find yourself swept up, carried to the bed.

You couldn’t answer if you wanted to—all you can do is draw breath after breath, chest heaving. Venom leans over you, smiling in that satisfied way of theirs, pleased to leave you speechless.

“We should dine in more often,” they say, and you muffle your breathless laughter into a pillow. 


End file.
